


Superpowers Suck

by Ghelik



Series: Short Stories [1]
Category: No Fandom, Original Work
Genre: Dystopia, Future, Healing, Superpowers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-21
Updated: 2016-02-21
Packaged: 2018-05-22 10:54:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6076662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ghelik/pseuds/Ghelik
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>People dream about having superpowers, but there are powers that suck. Like that guy who can turn into a daisy patch when stressed. And then there are the healers. Healers have the shittiest of  all superpowers.<br/>Unbeta'd</p>
            </blockquote>





	Superpowers Suck

People think there’s nothing cooler than superpowers. I’ve seen the documents of Old about the people who revered super-powered folks. The Old Ones were kind of obsessed with the whole thing. They had temples, and religions and stuff.

  
Well, let me tell you, there are very cool powers – James can fly, how cool is that? – and there are very lame ones – see Garry, who turns into a freaking tree every time he gets very nervous. You’d think there’s nothing lamer than turning into a tree. Well, I’ve heard about this guy that turns into a patch of daisies. Some very old dudes spent a few millennia turned into stone statues and have recently awoken to find missing members. That’s pretty lame too. There are powers that people can turn on and off, like Garry’s and James’. But there are others that cannot: like most of the Mind-Readers. Or the healers.

  
I’m a healer and I can tell you, right away, that being one sucks big time. I’d rather be daisy-patch-dude than a healer.

 

Since superpowers started making an unexpected appearance around regular folks there have been a series of adjustments made to this our utopian society. Some powers are useless – like Garry’s. Garry’s future is pretty much free for him to do what he wishes. James will probably be sent around as Peace Keeper. Sonja with her telekinesis will be kind of forced to learn how to deactivate bombs. Or terrorist. Lucia is a telepath so she’ll be shipped to one of the government facilities to train her telepathy and make sure we are all safe from ourselves. And that everyone is fulfilling their role in society. I think that’s probably why I hate Lucia so very much since it’s thanks to her that I’ll be sent to a hospital as soon as my 25th birthday party is over.

  
I am a healer. A very good one, if I’d say so myself. Most healers have to maintain physical contact in order to cure people. I can walk down a street and get the cataracts of a guy 10 meters away from me, the cold of the woman on the other side of the street and a few stray cancer cells from the cute girl over there. The government says that’s why healers have to be in hospitals. Not only to cure our fellow citizens but to be safe from their illnesses and the only reason healers aren’t sent to hospitals as soon as their powers appear is because of the Children’s Protection Act of 3720. Thank you great-granddad…

  
The CPA was put in place in order to make sure every child got a chance to be a kid, instead of being automatically exploited for their powers. A way to protect us poor children from the Powerless and then from the super-powered in the government. Healers would probably strike if we weren’t so freaking easy to overpower.

 

Let me tell you, being a healer might sound terrific: there’s no illness we cannot cure. We can even set death back for old people and some can even heal mortal wounds – I don’t know if I’m one of them and I’m not very keen on finding out. But the truth is we don’t heal. We just take the wound into our own body. We take the illness and keep it for a while. Our immune system is pretty good, so we can heal nearly anything we get ourselves, and we automatically absorb anything that other people have.

  
It sucks. Thanks to the CPA I might have had a semblance of childhood, but I’ve spent most days at home, suffering colds, pox, cataracts, arthritis and a very long etcetera.

 

I wouldn’t say I am a rebel. I’ve always been kind of a coward and very happy to be one. I am fine with following the rules and I don’t really want to defy the government. I know they keep us safe and I know what a war between super-powered individuals would do not only to the already-battered earth but to the whole human race in general, so… Not much of a fighter.

  
But.

  
But I’ve been to hospitals. My mom is also a healer and I’ve been to visit her a lot of times. And I really don’t want to spend the rest of my life there.

  
Of course, I’m not the only one who’s not thrilled with their future. My girl, Sonja, doesn’t want to go fight crime. Her dream has always been having a flower-shop. I myself don’t know what I could do other than going to the hospital. Since I was small I’ve always known that’s what I had in store. I try to be positive, but the older I am the less I like the idea of the pain. The more bitter and angrier I am. Today is the day I’ll be sent away. Sonja and I haven’t left our small one-room apartment for the better part of a week. Sonja has been acting weird.

  
I look down at my cell.

 

Lucy has called. Again.

 

Telepaths’ are like another species altogether. Everybody hates them and they’re usually mean and cruel in return. I get it’s not their fault, nobody knows where these super-powers came from and they can’t help snooping around in brains. I think Lucy means well. It’s not her fault that she found a place where she was actually liked among her fellow brain-readers.

  
She went to the government facility for telepaths as soon as she was eighteen and legally an adult. I think she doesn’t get how anybody can not love the idea of having a set future. As I’ve gathered, most brain-readers are like that.

 

“I should get going.”

 

Sonja looks up, without moving her head off my lap. She doesn’t say anything.

  
“I don’t want them coming for me.”

 

She still doesn’t say anything. But the pressure of her head on my leg grows heavier. If she wanted she could paralyze me on the spot and I wouldn’t be able to leave. She’s done it a number of times and it’s always been kind of thrilling to be at her mercy like that.

  
But not today. Today I want to walk away on my own two feet and climb into the car. I don’t want them to bring anyone and drag me kicking and screaming. It would be a very unpleasant illness they’d brought. And I really don’t want Sonja to remember me like that.

  
“Maybe you should go to Garry’s.”

 

Sonja’s angry silences have always grated on my nerves. She’s usually quite vocal. I don’t want to fight either. I want her to stand next to me by the door, kiss me goodbye and smile. I want her to wave from the window as the car pulls away. She won’t do it.

  
In the end, we end up screaming at each other and I am too angry, too tired to look out the backseat window and see if she’s standing by the window.

  
The hospital is like any other hospital anywhere: white and kind of stale. Has a beautiful garden and tall windows. Each healer has his own room and we can decorate it however we want. There are a nice library and a cafeteria where we have free meals that are not quite bad and not quite good. There’s also a small cinema where we get three different movies a week. And three little stores for clothes and decoration and personal stuff. My room has a nice view of the city, has a small sitting area with a flat screen, a table with a state-of-the-art computer and a bedroom. The bathroom is sweet, too. But it’s clearly meant for just one and I miss Sonja as soon as I enter it.

  
We work 10-hour shifts four days a week, except for when we have night watch – a week every three months. After which we get a whole week rest. It could be a lot worse.

  
Except it couldn’t.

 

Very soon I get why the little cinema and the stores are always empty. And my cute little room turns out it’s only a place to lie awake coughing and spitting blood and feeling awful. Three days rest is about as little rest as you can get in order to recharge batteries and get rid of all the filth we get pumped in our bodies for ten hours straight.

  
The food in the cafeteria could be award winning for all we care. It usually tastes like ash.

 

Yesterday one of the healers hung himself. Apparently, he could heal from a broken neck.

  
I miss Sonja. And my friends. I even miss school where the worst I got was smallpox. Next week we’re getting the visit of the Minister of Health. Every once in a while someone comes to take pictures of us – selfless heroes of society that fight for the betterment of life for our society. The ministry of health is always telling us how proud they are, how we’re the true heroes of our society. I hate them.

  
The minister is a strong man, with yellow hair and a kind face. I have to meet with him. He’s soft spoken, has soft green eyes. He commends me on my selflessness and my kindness.

  
“I’m not kind”, I tell him, my voice raspy. I’ve lost nearly twenty kilos and next to all my muscle mass. The minister tries very hard not to, but he flinches a little bit every time his eyes wander over my body. He’s been looking very hard at something next to my left ear. Everything to my right: the reporters and security guards and so on are a soft blur. My voice is soft. So much so, that they had to put a few more mics for the interview.

It’s streaming live. It usually is.

  
I wasn’t the first choice, only the only one who was kind of presentable for the main audiences. Usually they interview someone who has had a long break, in order for them to look kind of alive. Or someone who’s saved a child or something like that.

  
But on my shift I was the only one available.

 

“Of course you are”, the Minister puts a soft hand on top of mine. His calluses are the first thing I got when he entered the room. He had a chronic pain on his left leg and cavities. My teeth ache. The reporters were all pretty healthy. “You’re one of the pillars of our society.”

  
He’s trying. I can tell. He’s totally believes it. I know. It’s not his fault.

 

“No. I am not.”

 

He smiles and indulges me. “How come?”

 

“Because I hate you.” The words slip out without me meaning to say it. But I’m on a roll and I cannot stop. “I wish you’d die already so that I could sleep at night. I wish I could leave this place. I wish I could have a girlfriend and that food would have taste again. I wish I didn’t have scars. I don’t like being a healer, I don’t want to be one. You have robed me of my life and my future. You don’t notice, but you have tortured me and will keep doing so until I die.” The minister’s hands are freezing. “I am here not because of the kindness of my heart. I’m here because I am a prisoner. And I would like to know why?”

  
His eyes are very green. I wonder what’s his power.

 

“Because the wellbeing of one individual is not as important as the wellbeing of the majority. You are here, your live has been made misery, so that others can have one.”

  
“That is not fair” He doesn’t smile. He is very, very serious.

  
“Live is not fair. I am sorry for your loss and your pain. But it is necessary.”


End file.
